


That Dream

by ollipop



Category: Original Work
Genre: Angst, Gen, POV First Person, Parent-Child Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-24
Updated: 2013-09-24
Packaged: 2017-12-27 12:13:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/978721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ollipop/pseuds/ollipop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written in April 2009 from a dream I had, and had to write down in order to purge from my brain. I'm just keeping it safe here on the Archive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	That Dream

**Author's Note:**

> The note on my original file said, "Inherited from Lynn". I no longer know what that means.

I'm sitting in the morgue, it's 3 am, and I was supposed to teach a class tomorrow.

 

I don't really know how I got here. Bill is somewhere down the hall, signing papers. He's right, I shouldn't have come along. I don't know what to do here. There's a box of scratchy tissues at my elbow; perhaps it's already time to cry. I remember screaming, but I don't seem to be able to cry.

 

My boy is in there too. Bill and Jake are in the other room. No, Bill is in the other room. Jake is dead.

 

 _Jake is dead._ I try it on for size, imagine saying it to someone and fail. Let's try another phrase: _Jake is hurt._ No. That would be a phrase for the hospital. _Jake isn't here._ I imagine friends, girls, bill collectors, calling me over and over. An endless stack of phone messages. No. _Jake left._ Maybe? No. _Jake is dead._

“Cassie, are you ready to go?” Bill is back, and kneeling at my feet. “We're all done here.” I try to imagine how we're getting Jake into the car. I guess we're not bringing him back home tonight. I guess we're not bringing him back home.

“No, I want to stay,” I tell him. He sits down next to me, puts an arm around me stiffly, and we wait and wait and wait.

***

 

Now I'm in his room, rocking him to sleep with the white noise machine humming behind me. He is almost two and it's time to wean him, but I keep putting it off one more week. And then one more. He's patting my neck and absently suckling, as if he were chewing gum. I try to pull him to my shoulder and he cries, so I switch tactics and sit him upright in my lap. I rock and shush him when he tries to pull the dial on the white noise machine, stretches to reach a toy.

 

I remember every minute of that night, that phone call, the door of the morgue, the shock of him being cold and gone. But here is my boy in my arms, not quite two, perfect and safe and warm and loving. He snuggles into my neck and I forget to chide him about wiggling. I wish I could start now, tell him the things that will slow him down and keep him safe. What would I say? _Be careful, kiddo, take it easy, slow down, mind yourself._ All those words from my mother, the ones that fell on deaf ears with me. What if I were more blunt? _I know how you will die. Save yourself._ No, that's nothing I can put onto him. And who am I to tell him to be careful? He's a toddler right now, he can't even open a doorknob by himself. I turn up the noise machine and start whispering: _I love you. I love you. I love you. Don't ever go away. I love you._ Over and over again.

 

***

The next time I see him he is twelve, and barreling in the door from basketball practice. The sun is still bright, and it will be barely dark by his bedtime; it's always a challenge to get him into bed at this time of year. How did I get from there to here? Jake is twenty four, crashed his car, and died. I know this. But suddenly I'm standing in the middle of my kitchen and it's June, not February, and my boy is in front of me, sweaty and grinning. “Can I have some yogurt, Mom?”

 

“Sure,” I say, dazed, standing back from the fridge. He's fine. He's fine. Did I dream all that? I grab him by the arm, pull him in for a hug.

 

“Aww, Mom, c'mon.” he says. “Quit it, you've got that look on your face again.” He hates it when I get all sentimental--hated it. Today, my son still has half his life left. Only half. I look at the calendar to be sure. I turn to him, trying to drink a little more of him in, but he is already brushing past me up the stairs.

 

***

 

He's in trouble again. Some bully whispered something, he just couldn't hold his temper, shoved a book across a desk and ... I can't really keep track. Something happened. When I pick him up he is sullen, wants to be left alone. I've decided in the last couple months that it's useless to tell him to control his temper. “Where are we going?” I ask, lightly.

 

***

 

My mother is holding his arms as he takes wobbly steps down the sidewalk. She is trying to convince me that if I put shoes on him he would walk faster. It's the middle of June and shoes last on his feet about five minutes right now.

 

I remember him all grown up; I can see how the curve of his round baby chin will lengthen and how his smile will begin crinkling around his eyes. He has his eyes locked on his feet as he tries again to remember which foot goes in front, and I can see the slouch of his teenagerhood. His nose is flat and I can remember it getting more pronounced. I can remember it broken and mashed from the accident. My mother looks up and says, “You know it will only be a few more weeks until he walks on his own. _” No, Jake, don't walk._ I think. _I will carry you forever, don't go anywhere. Stay my baby. Stay mine._

 

***

 

Mom, are you going to tell me about that crazy dream again?” he said. “That's stupid, you know I'll be fine. How many times have you told me to be careful?” He doesn't look at me or stop to wait for an answer. “I'll see you Monday.”

He's already gone. What was it I needed to say to him?


End file.
